Paved Roads
by Amalia Kensington
Summary: post-Reichenbach. Summary is a spoiler. One way or another...


Fandom: Sherlock (BBC)

Spoilers: post-Reichenbach

DISCLAIMER: I own absolutely nothing. Don't sue me please.

Summary: One way or another, Sherlock Holmes had ceased to exist.

_**Paved Roads**_

The air that comes in from the open passenger window is hot and humid, doing nothing to aid the perspiration that accumulates between his shoulders. The car should have an air conditioner that works, but beggars can't be choosers, and so having the windows open was a better option than not.

It is becoming very obvious to him very quickly just how big America really is, the last eight hours of driving taking a larger toll on him than he'd be likely to admit. The breadth of this country coupled with an obsession of its people to drive it made road travel the most viable and least dangerous option to to take him to his destination (a place called Little Rock). The wide roads stretch out before him, lined with green green green that is enough to give him a headache with the sameness of it all. New York City had been far more stimulating, despite its odd smell and overcrowding, but he did realize the necessity of movement deeper into the country, of being somewhere less obvious, even for the need to change his appearance.

She had laughed when she'd seen him, just off the plane from Paris, his bottle-blonde hair tucked beneath a dark blue cap. An appointment for a proper hairdresser was made immediately and along with a new name and wardrobe, Sherlock Holmes (dark floppy hair, long coat, genius, fraud) successfully disappeared.

He glances in the rear-view mirror at his cropped, red-blonde hair. Disguises are not something new to him (though this color rather reminds him of Mycroft when they were children) but there is something that feels very final about this one, an annoying certainty that is building somewhere in his mind and pooling in his stomach that he might not ever get to be himself again. Jim Moriarty truly had been brilliant, sure in all of his actions that in the end, he'd still win.

One way or another, Sherlock Holmes had ceased to exist.

His grip on the steering wheel tightens, thoughts of just what a waste it all is burning like an acid. He is angry now, genuinely ready to rage as he had been on the brink of for the last two months. He'd been forced to walk away from everything he'd ever considered important in his life and necessary to his existence, and for _what_? What was it all _for?_

He sees the smoothly paved road that lies open in front of him, endlessly going nowhere and he briefly wishes there was something on it to smash into, just to hear the sound of the crash.

Just then her fingers close over his wrist, his pulse angrily pushing against them, instantly bringing him back from whatever ledge he seems to perpetually be on. He glances at her, but her stare is directed out the window, the muggy, hot air blowing her hair around her face. Her bare feet are propped up on the dashboard and the casual observer would have thought her relaxed. But her fingertips are cold despite the weather, her jawline tight and her shoulders stiff.

It occurs to him that she doesn't exist anymore either.

The late Irene Alder had landed on her feet, just as he had expected her to, remaining as elusive and unpredictable as she'd ever been, smiling wickedly at all the right times, invading his personal space and having already formed a plan for them. But he knows now,knows how deeply sentiment runs through her (he had depended on it to help him), and is beginning to see what Molly had been referring to. The woman that had placed a steadying hand on his arm is changed, in more ways than just her hair colour and her accent. There was always a sadness to her, one that could have been there all along but now that they are both on the other side of death, he can see it more clearly.

She is pulling on his arm now, gently removing his hand from the white knuckled grip he'd had on the steering wheel and lacing her fingers with his. She's sad and he's angry and they are both on the run from being alive.

Sentiment.

He doesn't pull away.

END

A/N: This was supposed to go in a wholly different direction, but I think this is just where it needs to be. Thanks for reading.


End file.
